


The Monster And His Song

by Cicileal



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Murder, Other, Piano, Post-Canon, Prose Poem, Walrider Miles Upshur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 16:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicileal/pseuds/Cicileal
Summary: You ache when the dead man prays to you.
Relationships: Miles Upshur/The Walrider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	The Monster And His Song

You find the piano by searching for a song burning through the dark. You step with bare feet on the carpet. It’s damp and blood-soaked and washes over your skin. Though the sound is muffled, the boards are old and they creak. 

_ Quiet. _

The song continues to play.

It feels familiar. Not that you could name it, but the notes soak through you, leave you drowsy and comfortable. Do you know the song? You can feel the itch of it in your fingers. 

_Loved it._  
Your fingers follow the rhythm, quiet and hidden in the sleeves of your jacket. The notes aren’t perfect, the variant stumbles with some of the faster parts, and the piano needs to be tuned. It’s a broken sound, but it’s intimate. 

You sit beside the variant, your fingers still dancing with the melody. He doesn’t notice you. So lost in his music. And a song begins to form. Floating from his tongue in lilting Spanish. 

You sing with him in silence. 

But the swarm feels the notes in your chest, plays them against itself. It wants to imitate the warmth you remember. It’s terrified of how human you are. Needs to remind you of its place and yours. The notes grate and scratch against the variant’s passion. 

Silence. 

His fingers still, but he doesn’t turn to you. He tries to run, but you catch his wrist. He falls to his knees, thumbs against his forehead when his hands fold together. You can feel the loss of the song when he starts praying, his fear.

He has no eyes. Dried blood where his tears ought to fall. You can feel his need to cry. 

You touch his cheek, thumb running across his bones and leather skin, below his eye. There are scars, where he was cut. The swarm dances from your fingers. 

_ Stop _ .

* * *

You find the piano again. But now it’s by memory rather than song. You take the place of the man on the bench, and the swarm climbs a candlewick. Orange light casts the shadows of your fingers on the keys.

_ Am I the monster?  _ The scar is ugly when you twist your hand in the light. The fresh blood clinging to your fingertips.

_ No _ . A touch to your palm. Fingers pressed softly against the keys.  _ Play.  _

Macabre smoke covers your hands, the keys disappear and everything grows dark. It bites and stings and pricks and burns.

You close your eyes and see the ashes of a burning chapel.

_ Monsters don't love music. _


End file.
